Reign of Evil

CHAPTER 44

The party was still in full swing. Revelers could be heard inside and outside the home. Here and there a naked torso or butt could be seen pressed against one of the upstairs windows. Ian had never seen anything like it. What they were doing didn’t seem fitting on Christmas and certainly was not a tradition his family cultivated.

After a brief conferral, he and Magerts placed the men where they had planned, based on reconnaissance using Google Maps. The lots to the right and left of the home were empty, but across the road was seven-foot shrubbery capable of hiding men from view of the house. There was also a rather dense blackberry thicket in the empty lot to the right, which seemed to present an impenetrable view both to and from the home. Neither would provide cover enough to stop any rounds, but they’d provide excellent concealment.

Fifteen men were placed behind the shrubbery. They all carried SA80s, a suite of white phosphorous, smoke, and fragmentation grenades, Fairbairn-Sykes commando knives, and of course their swords. Eight men with the same armament were placed behind the thicket and were under the command of Magerts. The remaining seven Marines were stationed at the house where they’d previously conducted surveillance. Two of these men carried L7 General Purpose 7.62mm machine guns, which were placed so they could fire from the front and rear of the structure. The remaining five were armed as the others and were to be the Quick Reaction Force, moving where designated if needed. They were under the command of Sergeant Ronald Scott, who was eager to engage and disappointed he wouldn’t be part of the initial fight.

Ian and Magerts had decided to try to lure whatever forces were waiting for them outside. Attempting to break into the place would be suicidal. Ian stared up toward the height of Glastonbury Tor, which rose five hundred feet above the plain. The Tor was topped by St. Michael’s Tower, which was still standing even after much of it had been destroyed by a twelfth-century earthquake. The far side of the Tor was terraced, but the near side had a gentle slope, only slightly disturbed by terracing. A thin path ran from the summit down to the rear of the Tudor home. A wider, more formal path bisected the hill from southwest to northeast.

They observed their target for forty-five minutes to ascertain whether there were any roving guard forces or security elements, but there were none.

Ian checked his watch. 0830 hours. It was time to knock on the front door. He wore a black turtleneck under a black leather jacket. He wore black 5.11 pants with black boots. A black beret covered his head. He felt the heaviness of the amulet he wore beneath his shirt. He’d never used it before, but since they were going against magic, he thought he’d try. Taken from the body of a dead seventeenth-century witch hunter by one of his predecessors, the logs from the 1800s professed its ability to provide protection to the wearer against magic. Whatever the truth of it, he was about to find out.

He pulled free an M34 model United States white phosphorous grenade. The UK had ceased to use them in 1997, but for Ian they were so much more useful than his other options. On the one hand, a smoke grenade would merely conceal the door. A fragmentation grenade would destroy it and possibly innocents behind it. The white phosphorous grenade, on the other hand, could burn at 5,000 degrees Fahrenheit for up to sixty seconds. He liked it because of its duration and its disruption.

He pulled the safety, then the pin from the cylindrical grenade, then stepped free from the shrubbery and walked across the street. When he was ten feet away from the door, he tossed it. The spoon flew free and it rolled until gently bumping into the door. Then he turned and walked into the street, continuing east down the road.

He heard the pop and the hiss, then the roar of white phosphorous burning violently. Walking away as he did would put eyes on him instead of the two hide sites. He felt an itch in the center of his back like someone was training a rifle on him. Would he even feel the bullet? Not if it hit his spine or the back of his head.

Then he heard Magerts through the radio coms. “Front door is on fire. They’re breaking it down from the inside. They’ve tossed a body on top of the grenade. Jesus. It burned right through.”

Ian prayed that it wasn’t Trevor but suspected that it probably had been. Bastards.

He kept walking until he knew he was out of sight, then peeled off to the right and made his way back using the shrubbery as cover.

A howl went up from somewhere behind the house. As it died in the overcast morning, it was followed by another.

A minute had gone by, but the grenade was still spouting flame. The doorframe was on fire. He could see shadows through the flames but couldn’t make out anything inside.

And the party still went on.

The howls came again… closer.

A hound tore around the left side of the house. It skidded to a stop and regarded the burning canister in front of it. As it circled it was joined by another. They both regarded the grenade as it died, their heads turning at odd angles, as if they were trying to decide what it was.

Their presence made him uneasy, especially when he observed their eerily human fronts. Their simian faces held human eyes and bore odd expressions. Sometimes it seemed like they were in pain, sometimes it seemed as if they were trying to laugh, neither of which they could accomplish with their animal facial structure.

“Get ready.” He backed away from the men standing in front of him and drew his sword. When he was ready and when his men had their swords drawn, their Fairbarn-Sykes commando knives in their other hands, he made the call. “Here, doggie, doggie. Come to Poppa.”

The machine gunner up the road with the front of the house vantage spoke through the coms. “You got their attention. Call again.”

Ian whistled. “Here, doggy, doggy.”

“Here they come.”

The men heard it as well.

He gripped Guy of Warwick’s sword tightly.

Instead of coming through the shrubbery, the hounds leaped over the seven-foot hedge. They came down on the other side of the line of men, facing Ian all alone.

This was not exactly how the plan was supposed to have gone. One of the hounds rushed at him and he brought his sword down on its shoulder, the black blade slicing through meat until it struck bone. He jerked the blade free and brought it down for another attack, but this time the beast backed away.

Meanwhile three Marines had caught the second hound by surprise and were busy hacking it to death. Even as it tried to spin, pieces of it fell away. Once separated, they turned to smoke and drifted away.

Ian feinted.

The hound jerked back, then leaped forward.

Ian was forced to backpedal. He barely kept his balance.

The hound leaped.

Ian brought his sword up in a blind defense and ended up skewering the creature, the tip of the blade entering through the mouth. It fell hard, ripping the sword free from his hand. For a moment, he was worried that he was now weaponless. But the hound was dead and he watched it first fall to pieces and then those pieces turn to smoke. His sword was left lying in the grass. He snatched it from the ground and looked for something else to attack.

But the hounds were gone.

Not that they’d won the day or anything, but succeeding in killing what they’d previously been unable to kill elated him.

He could see the Marines smiling at their accomplishment, but he had to force himself to remain unaffected.

“They weren’t prepared. They will be now.”

The Marine at the back of the vacant house with his machine gun reported, “They’re massing a platoon of men with weapons—looks like SA80s—up on the Tor. Looks like there are some robed figures with them and several dozen hounds.”

Ian wished he could see their formation. “Are they coming down, or are they performing a blocking maneuver?”

“They’re not moving, if that’s what you mean.”

Ian had worked his way back to the shrubbery and the party at the house was still going in full force. He ordered four of his men to the door.

They ran the length of the shrubbery, then exited onto the road, east of the house. If they were being observed, now was the moment for an observer to fire at them. But no shots came. They were able to stack themselves on either side of the smoldering doorframe.

“The body is Asian,” one of the men said.

Ian let out a sigh of relief. At least it wasn’t Trevor.

One of the Marines peered inside, then jerked his head back.

“Report?”

“Uh…”

“Come on, Marine, what do you see?”

“A lot of bloody fucking.”

Ian had no response.

“Everywhere. Everyone. It’s one big orgy. What do you want us to do?”

Ian had been prepared for pretty much anything. But not this. He’d been ready to defend or to attack, but what could he do to rooms filled with people in coitus?

“We have more hounds coming your way,” a Marine said hurriedly.

Another Marine added, “Oh shit. Here comes one of the—”

The four Marines at the door stood as stock-still as mannequins.

A figure was coming through the darkness from inside. It was a woman. A tall, naked woman with her lips sewn shut. Tresses of long black hair fell down her back. She made the doorway and put a hand on each of the men in turn. When she touched them, they fell, immediately falling into a seizure, their entire bodies shaking and jerking.

Then she pointed toward the shrubbery. Ian watched as all eleven remaining men jerked straight as if invisible strings attached to their limbs had been pulled tight. Then she pointed toward the thicket.

“Magerts, report,” ordered Ian.

Nothing.

His amulet felt warm beneath his shirt, but he was still able to move. He sheathed his sword, snatched up a rifle, and took aim. He locked on her face and fired six times. She fell backwards and then went down.

His men immediately relaxed their poses and began to whisper among one another.

“Quiet,” he reassured them.

The four men at the door had stopped seizing and began to get up.

First two hounds, then one naked possessed girl. They were being underestimated. It was only a matter of time before they’d realize it and attack.

But for now, he had to prepare for more hounds.

Even as he thought it, they attacked.

Four hounds came for him and his men. Two of them burst through the shrubbery, creating gaping holes. The other three leaped over the top of it like the previous pair. Although their bodies were the same diseased-looking hairless gray, they were different sizes by degrees.

One set of blue eyes flashed at him; then the beast came for him, low, mouth open with protruding fangs.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw three of his men go down. Damn.

“Do you need help?” Magerts shot through the coms.

Ian brought his sword back into First Point, which presented the tip of the blade toward the target, his sword hand beside his right ear. “Got this.” The tip of the sword quivered from his barely controlled fear.

The hound clawed for his leg.

Ian jerked his foot back.

The hound immediately clawed at his other leg, before Ian could put his foot down.

He was forced to hop backwards and in doing so lost his balance.

The hound leaped forward, grabbing his boot with a claw. He felt talons bite into his leg directly above his ankle. He fought back a scream and jammed his sword at the hound’s face. It jerked back, but not before he sliced off an ear. But even as he looked, the ear grew back.

He pushed himself back and stood.

The hound moved on again.

This time Ian feinted, stepped back just as the hound lunged, and spun to his right, finishing a 270-degree arc by slicing the black blade through the creature’s neck.

It fell soundlessly and began to melt into the air.

Ian turned to his men. Eight of them were down. A single hound held the rest at bay. Try as the Marines might, they couldn’t get past the hound’s defenses, and vice versa.

The hound was facing away from Ian so it was an easy five long strides before he hacked off this one’s head as well.

With no current opponents, he began to check the men.

Five were dead, one of whom had his chest ripped open and another with his spine ripped out. Ian saw it lying a few feet away but didn’t have the stomach to return it to the dead. Three others were wounded, one of whom didn’t have long to live.

“Observation Post, report,” Ian said.

“They’re arguing on the hill. They must know what you’ve done. The hounds are dead, right?”

“Affirmative.”

“They seem to be trying to decide. One’s pointing this way.”

The observer in the front of the home joined the conversation. “I bet he’s pointing at the troop trucks.”

Ian could hear trucks coming up the road. Sounded like several of them. A sinking feeling replaced his sense of impending victory. “Did you say ‘troop trucks’?”

“The trucks stopped. Men are disembarking. They’re wearing black and carrying SA80s. They’re forming into two groups and look ready to come down each side of the road.”

“How many?”

“Thirty. Fifteen and Fifteen.”

“Stand by.” Ian sheathed his sword and grabbed the nearest Marine. He spoke in a harsh whisper. “Listen up. We’re crossing the road and going into the house. We leave in five seconds. Magerts, stand by. QRF, stand by. Two, one, move!”

He jerked free his pistol and pulled the Marine through the shrubbery and let the others follow. He rushed across the narrow two-lane road, through the charred doorframe, and into the house. Parlors stood off either side of the entry. He posted the men in each one as they came through. The last two in line were the wounded as they came under fire from the new threat. One took a bullet in the back. The other made it in.

“Magerts, when they get in front of the house, open fire with everything you have. QRF, establish positions to their rear. Machine-gun fire on my command. You lot in here. I want you to clear the first floor. Kill anyone who is a threat and zip-tie everyone else. And for the love of god, look out for Trevor.” Ian faced ten sets of wide-eyed stares. “Move!” And they jumped into motion.

He remained by the front window. He didn’t like being forced to bring his men inside without knowing what they faced, but the alternative would get them killed. And they weren’t even close to completing their mission. He tried to call Holmes but got only static. He tried Preeti with the same results. Could someone be blocking cellular coms? If so, he was thankful their short-range radios were working.

Several shots rang out behind him. He didn’t dare turn. He just had to trust that the Marines were doing their jobs.

The radio crackled as the machine gunner spoke. “One group is moving behind the shrubbery you just vacated.”

“And the other?”

“Moving slower toward the near corner of the house.”

Ian pulled a fragmentation grenade from his belt, slid free the pin, and held the spoon in place. He put his back to the wall just left of the window. It gave him the angle to see the first man of the group of black-clad soldiers closest to him. He was dressed like the others, and his and the faces of the men behind him were painted with black and green camo.

“Magerts, fire on my signal.” He let the spoon slip free and cooked the hand grenade for two seconds before tossing it through the window. He had just enough time to see the surprised expression on the lead man’s face before Ian was forced to dive to the ground.

The grenade went off, peppering the outside of the home with shrapnel. Screams were cut off by a surge of SA80s firing from Magerts’s hide site. Then a few seconds later, the rattling of the machine gun began to eat the rear of the line of men.

He pulled his last two fragmentation grenades, removed the pins, then tossed each of them across the road until they rolled beneath the shrubbery. He jerked his head back. Both went off simultaneously, throwing superheated shrapnel in all directions. When next he looked, a pair of truck-sized holes had been blown in the shrubbery. Men were picking themselves off the smoke-hugged ground. Many had hands over their ears. They never heard the machine-gun shots that took them down.

Then as suddenly as the violent confluence started, it stopped.

The machine gunner said it simply. “They’re all dead.”

“Rule number one.” Magerts laughed. “Never walk into an L-shaped ambush.”

But Ian didn’t find any of this funny. Thirty men with families had just died much like Jerry and probably Trevor. And for what? For a mythical king to come back to life? Fuck!

One of the Marines approached from behind. “First floor cleared, sir. No sign of Trevor.”

“Clear the second floor. Magerts, clear the front, and bring your men inside.”

Ian turned and walked into the main salon where his men had already zip-tied several dozen revelers. It had been an orgy of epic proportions. Many of the men were still erect, trying to edge their way closer to the nearest zip-tied woman. There wasn’t a single piece of furniture or square meter of carpet that wasn’t occupied by someone.

Some of the men still wore masks. Long beaks of birds. The mane of a lion. The whiskered snout of a rat. He pulled the rat’s mask off and recognized the man immediately.

“You looked different on television.”

The flab of the man’s midsection almost covered his semi-erect cock. The mad, lust-filled look in his eyes showed no signs of diminishing. It was either drugs or magic or both. Whatever was in these people, it wasn’t anything Ian wanted to be part of. He glanced over at the naked women and noted that they did nothing for him. In fact, he felt sadness for them. Whatever they’d had that was good had been spent. He wasn’t sure how he knew it, but he just did. Something evil had come to harvest and laid them bare.

A few shots echoed in the street out front; then Magerts and his men fanned inside.

Magerts whistled. “Now this is what I call a party.” He waggled a finger at one of his Marines. “Treat this like a museum, boys. Look, but don’t touch.”

“Pretty fucked-up museum,” one of them said.

Magerts’s face held the afterglow of battle. “We’ll follow you anytime, Lieutenant Colonel Waits. Those bastards never knew what hit them.”

Ian shook his head at the pure sadness of it. “No, they didn’t.”

It had been a little while since he’d heard from the other Marines he’d sent upstairs. He found the staircase and looked up at the landing. His heart chilled as one of the lip-sewn women stood there, her eyes glowing with power.

He felt the amulet grow hot against his chest.

Magerts began to approach, but Ian waved him back. He didn’t know what the woman had done to his men upstairs to overcome them and didn’t want it to happen to Magerts and his men. Ian alone seemed to be impervious to her powers. At least for now.

“Where are my men?” Somehow he managed to keep the terror from his voice.

She pointed at him and he felt his amulet grow warmer. He was so thankful he’d worn it.

“I’ll ask again, where are my men?” Then he laughed softly. Here he was asking a question of a woman whose lips were sewn shut. Correction. Not a woman but something that looked like a woman.

He put a foot on the first step just to see what would happen.

He was rewarded, so to speak. One of his men stepped woodenly beside her. Ian had talked to him. His name was Todd something. He had a kid who was in some Christmas pageant somewhere.

And now he stood, staring dumbly at Ian, holding a rifle, but not yet pointing it at him.

Please don’t point the weapon at me.

Ian had his hand on his pistol and was ready to draw it but hoped he wouldn’t have to exacerbate the situation.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said as much to her as he did to the Marine.

Then the Marine raised his rifle.

Ian had no choice. He drew quick and fired three times, catching the young man named Todd in the chest, head and throat. As his first target fell, he shifted his aim to the woman and fired three more, catching her in a similar pattern. But whatever success he’d found outside with the other lip-sewn girl, this one was different. She remained standing, and as he watched the bullet holes in her skin closed. He heard in his mind the voice of a famous actor known for his deep voice who said simply, “Oh, shit.”

Then two Marines stepped forward to replace the one he’d just been forced to shoot.

Instead of participating in this insane assassination of his own men, Ian turned and walked away. He saw a tabletop covered with liquor bottles. He grabbed a bottle of twenty-year-old Highland Park, flipped off the top with a finger, and brought it to his face. He gulped deeply, holding the bottle there, knowing full well that he was a babe suckling at his mother alcohol. Images of all the men who’d been under his command and not survived slid past in a parody of a mortician’s photo gallery until the final face caused him to jam shut his eyes. Trevor. Good kid to have helped Preeti like he’d done. Even better to have loved her after. He blinked away his tears, heaved back, and threw the bottle against the wall. He breathed deeply, then drew his sword. He knew what he had to do.